


A Taste of Hell

by HipHopAnonymous



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Bondage, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Discipline, Established Relationship, Non-Consensual Spanking, Other, Penis In Vagina Sex, Punishment, Spanking, Strapping, Tawse, mention of cunnilingus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-19 17:01:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20660651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HipHopAnonymous/pseuds/HipHopAnonymous
Summary: Heaven determines it prudent to give Aziraphale a little "sampling" of Hell's discipline to discourage disobedience. Aziraphale certainly didn't expect them to call in Crowley, of all demons, to deliver this punishment - no more than Crowley, an experienced disciplinarian of Hell, expected to find Aziraphale laid out in Hell for such discipline.Unbeknownst to their head offices, however, this sort of thing isn't necessarily a new experience for Crowley and Aziraphale. They've played games like thismanytimes before.





	A Taste of Hell

**Author's Note:**

> I think this was originally an idea put forth by [Boots](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pwnmercys/pseuds/Boots) but I also saw a similar Kink Meme prompt.

“The disobedience ends now,” Michael says primly. “You’ve been toeing the line, Aziraphale, and so we only thought it prudent to give you a little taste of Hell. Show you what to expect if you keep on the path of the fallen angels.” She raises her eyebrows meaningfully.

Aziraphale squirms and tries to slow his hammering heart, the pounding in his ears nearly drowning out her lecture. He’s laid out, chestdown on a platform raised only slightly from the ground. His wrists and ankles are bound with thick leather. He has given the bonds a few small experimental tugs, but they hold tight.

He is naked. Michael had miracled away his clothes immediately after two brawny, thug-like demons had bound him to the table without so much as a courtesy warning. The cool air in the dimly lit, dank cell sends prickles up and down his spine. He is overly aware of his exposed bare skin: the porcelain flesh of his back, his pale, fuzzy legs and thighs, and the soft curves of his buttocks, vulnerable to whatever discipline Heaven and Hell deem appropriate for his supposed transgressions. A pure canvas ready to be marked with shame. He shivers.

“Ah, yes, and here’s the demon we’ve been waiting for now, “ Michael says, “Thank you for coming, _Crowley_.”

Aziraphale wrenches his neck around so quickly it hurts, the disbelief plain on his face. He flushes momentarily in humiliation at Crowley seeing him like this; at how low Heaven has brought him. However, relief quickly overtakes his embarrassment. _Oh, t__hank goodness._

“Oh,” Crowley says, hiding his shock only slightly better than Aziraphale. He swallows. “So this is the … miscreant I’m meant to discipline today?” They hadn’t mentioned it was going to be an _angel. E_ven if they had, he would never have expected to see _this_ angel all trussed up in Hell of all places.

Aziraphale looks away from Crowley, burying his face between his outstretched arms.

Hastur chuckles from the corner, “That’s right, Crawly.”

Crowley grits his teeth at the deliberate misnaming, but ignores it otherwise. He feigns nonchalance at the situation.

“Wellllll, I was told to show up, so I did, but there must be some mistake, right?” He points to Aziraphale and quirks his eyebrow, trying to appear indifferent, “This is an _angel_, you know. Did you know, Hastur? I’d wager there’s been some sort of mix-up …”

“Nope,” Hastur pops the _p_ obnoxiously.

“There hasn’t been, I assure you,” Michael interjects. “Heaven believes that this angel, the Principality Aziraphale, will benefit greatly from a sampling of Hell’s wrath. So, if you would be so kind - ”

She gestures to Hastur who steps forward and hands a nasty looking tawse, about a foot and a half in length, to Crowley with a gleeful grin.

“A fitting choice," Hastur says. “It’s quite like your tongue, isn’t it?”

Crowley notes that the thin strip of leather is indeed split, or rather _forked_ into two tails at one end.

Hastur lowers his voice, muttering so only Crowley can hear as he hands it over, “You’ve already had your tongue all over him, haven’t you? Don’t even try to deny it. I bet you’ll enjoy licking him with this even more,” He winks then steps back, speaking loudly again, “I expect you remember how to use it.”

“Oh - um - yes?” Crowley looks at the implement in his hands as though it may bite him, mind reeling at Hastur's words. The strap is well-oiled and ready to impart maximum burning agony to someone’s unfortunate hide. That someone being Aziraphale in this case.

The truth is Crowley _does_ know how to use it. Very well, in fact. Or rather, very cruelly. He was thoroughly trained in all manner of discipline. And he’s had plenty of practice. In fact, he’s considered one of Hell’s top disciplinarians. Yet another reason for his popularity down here. He runs the thin leather through his fingers and bites his lower lip. He may not be nearly as evil as the other demons, but he does delight in a bit of harmless sadism. The thought of whipping Aziraphale’s soft, fleshy bottom with the tawse is an enticing proposition indeed.

The owner of that soft, fleshy bottom listens fretfully to the exchange concerning the fate of his backside, and it quivers in apprehension. Aziraphale sneaks a brief peek and doesn’t like the look of that tawse at all. He clenches his upturned, imperiled buttocks and whimpers. He needs for Crowley to understand that he’s very nervous. Not only is this unbelievably humiliating; being bared in front of others, but he’s not so sure about being _beaten_ with that strap.

Though he trusts Crowley implicitly, he also knows the demon can’t hold back with the audience in attendance. And a small, reckless part of Aziraphale really doesn’t want him to anyway. The angel gives a little shudder that’s part fear and part arousal. They've played this sort of game together before _many _times, though their respective home offices have quickly raised the stakes. 

If only Michael and that demon weren’t _watching_ … although if they weren’t, Aziraphale would undoubtedly start crying and begging to back out until Crowley relented, and released him for a nice little fuck and cuddle instead. No chance of that now, though. Aziraphale swallows thickly.

Crowley appraises Aziraphale’s bound, naked body and takes a deep breath, plotting and planning. It's imperative that he get this right. Without revealing any doubt or hesitation, he lays the tawse down across the backs of Aziraphale’s knees. The angel winces. Crowley gently rests his hand on his plush, pale bottom.

“Oi!” Hastur calls out. “What are you doing? You have to use the strap!”

“That _is_ correct, Demon Crowley,” Michael adds. “The implement has been chosen and is a necessary element of the punishment. It’s been decided.”

_Bloody impatient administration._ “I’ll _get_ to it, for Sssatan’s ssssake, all right?” he hisses. “Let me do this my way or else you can find some other demon for the job!” A bluff. Risky. But he _is_ the best at this, and he banks on them knowing that and not wanting to settle for less. He raises his eyebrows and looks from Hastur to Michael, waiting for any complaints.

“Very well,” Michael bows her head. “We’ll allow you to do it your way.”

Hastur snorts from his corner, crossing his arms in a huff.

Crowley releases the breath he’d been holding in relief. Luckily, they aren't going to try and call in another demon disciplinarian. This is good news, because Crowley _really_ isn’t in the mood for tearing someone apart. And that’s certainly what would happen since he’d never allow another demon (or, for that matter, another angel, human, or even a fucking _aardvark_) to touch, let alone hurt his angel. That’s a pleasure for Crowley and Crowley alone.

Hastur hadn’t been wrong. A part of him was going to enjoy this. That part of him was twitching in interest inside his nearly too-tight trousers at the sight of shapely angel arse laid out so delectably in front of him.

He gives Aziraphale’s plump bum a reassuring pat, eliciting an indignant sound. Crowley has to bite his cheek to keep from grinning. He raises his hand. Aziraphale instinctively clenches his buttocks. And then Crowley begins to deliver a very severe hand spanking to the angel’s defenseless bottom.

He puts his back into it, the smacks hard and relentless. Right cheek. Left cheek. Right cheek. He alternates evenly at first, thoroughly warming up and pinkening both sides nicely. Aziraphale’s hips give a little lurch at each spank. The sight makes Crowley hard.

Then Crowley gets unpredictable. He smacks one spot over and over until Aziraphale grunts in protest. Next, he delivers the spanks at random. _Spank!_ The back of his delicate right thigh. _Smack!_ The underside of his left buttock. _Crack!_ A tremendous spank directly to the center of his bottom. With no pattern, Aziraphale tenses every time Crowley raises his hand and gasps in surprise when it returns with a sharp sting to an unsuspecting spot somewhere on the surface of his plump backside.

Crowley keeps his palm stiff as a board. _Not the only part that’s stiff._ It can't be helped with the way the angel’s naked bottom wobbles at every spank. Crowley admires with some pride the pink handprints he leaves behind on Aziraphale's quivering rump. It’s a painting. A signature. His own demonic mark of ownership. Heaven may have instigated this punishment and assigned it to Hell, but _Crowley_ is the one warming the angel’s bottom, staking his claim with a spattering of pink and red impressions.

It doesn’t take very long before those handprints start to overlap, merging into a mottled red across the corpulent globes of Aziraphale’s arse. The white skin is now a delightful rosy red, radiating heat.

Aziraphale is squirming, panting, and yelping at each stinging spank. _Smack!_ “Ah!” _Slap!_ “Ow! OW!” _Smack!_ “Yeowch!” _Spank! SPANK!_ “Oh - Crow-er- you wretched, _mean_ demon!”

Crowley smirks. His palm is really stinging now and he imagines Aziraphale’s reddened bottom is, too, if all the writhing and fussing is any indication. Though he knows Aziraphale will appreciate this warm-up before tasting the strap. The sting of the twin-tailed tawse won’t be nearly so hard to take with his bottom already nice, hot, and stimulated. It will still hurt terribly, of course, but it’s the best Crowley can do for his angel, given the circumstances.

Crowley decides Aizraphale's bottom has been sufficiently (though not overly) warmed in preparation for the main course of discipline. He ends the spanking with a final slap, and then gives his smarting hand a shake.

Aziraphale’s breath is ragged, back rising and falling heavily. His bottom throbs with a not unpleasant, stinging warmth. His face is hot. His _cunt_ is hotter. He can feel the ticklish slickness of his own juices dripping between the inner lips of his sex and alongside his aching, swollen clit. He squeezes his thighs together as much as his bound ankles will allow, and fights the urge to hump the table like a dog in heat.

Crowley picks up the tawse from where it still rests on the backs of Aziraphale’s knees, miraculously having kept in place despite the angel squirming through his warm-up spanking. Aziraphale’s heartbeat ratchets up several notches now, body thrumming with a mix of nerves and arousal.

Crowley holds the single end of the tawse in one hand, pulling back the split tails taut with the other as he raises it in the air, takes aim, and then swings it down, releasing the tails to whip down with a tremendous _CRACK!_ against Aziraphale’s bottom. The leather bites into the skin, leaving behind a burning, dark pink welt across the center of both buttocks.

Aziraphale absolutely howls and bucks his hips up as high as he can, straining against the bonds, and _oh fuck_ there’s that cunt between his thighs, pink and glistening, flaxen curls matted with sweat and, Crowley is sure, arousal. Crowley can smell him, wet and eager from the spanking. He bites his tongue and surreptitiously adjusts himself.

Crowley rests the leather just below the first stripe against Aziraphale’s trembling bottom. He draws back and snaps down a second lash, leaving behind another welt parallel to the first. Aziraphale screeches and writhes, giving Crowley another peek of his sweet little sex.

Crowley’s technique is flawless. The trick, he knows, is to aim so the strap lands evenly across both buttocks, leaving behind a uniform sting and painful weal, without allowing the tips of the tails to wrap around the hip. Only amateurs would do that. His sweet, naughty angel deserves the best, even in this. _Especially _in this. Crowley alternates from which side the leather flies, ensuring an even distribution of burning anguish. In this expert, artistic manner, he paints Aziraphale’s backside scarlet, watching the flesh of his bottom rippling after each lash like the water of a lake around a tossed stone.

Aziraphale’s buttocks are already in searing, blazing, fiery agony, but Crowley shows no signs of slowing. Deep down, Aziraphale knows the demon _can’t_ be lenient, but he pouts anyway, chin trembling at the unfairness. The overwhelming pain of the tawse drives Aziraphale to woeful thoughts. Of course it’s easy for Crowley - a _demon_ \- to be merciless with him. It makes Aziraphale’s heart twist with just an inkling of doubt, and he sniffles, tears welling in his eyes.

He _does_ know better, though, and he realizes that before every stroke, Crowley lays the tawse against his buttocks. Though Aziraphale flinches uncontrollably, he appreciates the warning, the contact, the message of _I'm here with you_. It keeps him somewhat grounded through the pain. He still flails wildly, wrists and ankles chafing against the leather bindings, each time the tawse kisses his naked bottom with a deafening _crack_ alongside his desperate cries.

Aziraphale doesn’t keep count. He can’t. He’s sure that Crowley will, and deep down, he trusts that the demon won’t go beyond what would be considered strictly necessary for Heavenly atonement. Crowley may even hold back, Aziraphale risks hoping. Unless he’s feeling particularly _wicked_ today, of course. The tawse snaps down hard yet again against his blazing bottom ... _Oh, wicked,_ wicked, _demon, indeed!_ Aziraphale’s face is burning hot, sweat plastering his snowy hair to his forehead. With a sob at a particularly nasty lash, the tears that had been building start to flow. Aziraphale's not sure he can take it. He has no choice.

He begs anyway. “Oh, please, please! No more! I’m sorry, please! I can’t! I can’t take it! It’s too much!”

Suddenly, Crowley is at his back and Aziraphale startles. Crowley presses against him, kissing his shoulders and nape, then licking, suckling and nibbling at his neck.

“What - !” _What on earth is he doing?!_ Aziraphale’s shock and nerves spike and he looks quickly to Michael to find her ... frozen in place. _Oh._ “_Really,_ Crowley?”

“_Sweet, ever-loving fuck_, Angel!” Crowley gasps out between sloppily working his mouth over Aziraphale’s clammy skin, “I'm sorry, but … I … can’t wait … need you … _now_ … _oh, fuck_ …”

Crowley sits up, kneeling between Aziraphale’s bound ankles and fumbles desperately with his trousers, wrenching them open and releasing his _aching_ cock with a sigh of relief. He shuffles forward on his knees, the _need_ thrumming to his core.

Aziraphale feels as though his bottom is swollen _at least_ three times its already plentiful size. It throbs, burning, and if only he weren’t tied down he’d give it a soothing rub. He feels the same way about his cunt. Now that the lashing has relented, he can feel that it, too, is terribly swollen, absolutely on fire, and sopping wet. 

"Ah!" Aziraphale gasps as Crowley effortlessly slides a finger into his slick hole and they both shiver, mouths open and panting with want. Crowley brings that same finger to his lips and sucks it clean, eyes rolling back in his head at the taste.

Crowley spreads Aziraphale’s buttocks, and the angel hisses when careless thumbs dig into the welts, “Careful!” he hisses, “I’m so _sore_! You hit me too hard!”

“I had to!” Crowley says, exasperated. “We have an audience! I’m so very sorry, Angel.” He leans forward to nuzzle Aziraphale beside his ear. “Though, I’ll admit I may have enjoyed making you cry, darling,” he licks away the salty tears on Aziraphale's cheek and grins toothily. “Just a bit. Perhaps I should be stricter with you more often!”

“No! You’re awful! You cruel, evil thing!”

“That’s right, I _am_ evil! And don't you forget it! You’d better behave now that you know what I’m _really_ capable of!”

Aziraphale blushes and pouts so prettily that Crowley truly does look forward to hurting him again.

Aziraphale feels he more than deserves a little taking care of. He’s boiling, quim hot and wet and _empty_. He needs Crowley to touch him, to soothe him, to please him, to _fuck_ him. He hadn’t realized just how much before, but now he feels he may burst from the urgency of it. He isn’t sure what Crowley is waiting for. He wriggles his hips as if to say _Have your way with me already!_

Thankfully, Crowley obliges, with pleasure. One smooth thrust and he’s balls-deep, bony pelvis flush with Aziraphale’s hot, tender buttocks. His mouth falls open in a silent moan. The angel’s cunt is slick and hot and tight and _his_. He rolls his hips slowly at first, but quickly picks up speed, soon driving his hips forward with abandon, rutting like an animal.

“Oh, it hurts!” Aziraphale whines, purposefully stoking Crowley’s fiery lust. “You’re so rough with me. I’m not used to this kind of treatment!”

Crowley groans out a shuddering, wrecked sound. "Oh, you will be!" he practically growls, continuing to spew nonsense, "Thissss'll teach you to underestimate me ... tie you up ... bend you over ... show you what you're made for, insolent little sssslut!"

The angel smirks through his own grunts at the relentless pounding against his battered backside. He loves riling Crowley up like this. It's almost worth the current state of his bottom. He pushes further, “It’s not fair - you taking such liberties with me while I’m all trussed up, sore and defenseless …”

“Fuuuuck,” Crowley makes a strangled, desperate sound as he comes, biting Aziraphale’s shoulder and shuddering through the paroxysms.

Trapped beneath Crowley’s body, Aziraphale can hardly move. His sex quivers, just on the verge, and he whimpers when Crowley slips out of him, leaving him bereft, wanting. He squirms and thrusts on nothing, but just … can’t … “Oh, touch me, darling, please, _please_!”

Without hesitation, Crowley obediently works his hand under Aziraphale’s hip, slender fingers sliding between the slippery cum-and-slick-drenched lips between his thighs. He whispers praise at Aziraphale’s ear, “_Gorgeous, brave, delicious angel. My sweet, my love, my world._” He easily pushes one long, wriggling finger inside, and then brushes the pad of his another against the hood of the hot swollen nub, again and again and _again_ and Aziraphale cries out, high and breathy, pulsing and gushing against the demon’s hand, panting and trembling through it.

Crowley eases up and quickly takes care of the mess of emissions with a quick demonic miracle. He then immediately moves to soothe the angel, kissing the nape of his neck and gently rubbing his shoulders. Like this, they appear more like masseuse and client, if you ignore the leather bonds and Aziraphale’s blazing, well-whipped arse, of course. Crowley strokes the angel's damp hair, kisses his face, and calms him with tender touches so at odds with the violence he’d imparted only moments before. He makes the most of gentling Aziraphale now, knowing they may not be able to rejoin right away after this is over.

“You really _hurt_ me, you know,” Aziraphale says sullenly.

“‘M’sorry, Angel,” Crowley kisses his lips.

“I don’t _like_ that tawse thing,” the angel complains, pouting.

Crowley has to hold in a snort, unsure if Aziraphale _really_ means that considering the fervor of their recent lovemaking. “Don't worry. We’re almost finished, sweetling.”

Aziraphale's jaw drops. “Almost?! Not already?! Oh, this is so unfair!”

Crowley shushes him with another kiss to his lips. “Only for the sake of appearances. I’m going to strike you twice more. Can you take that for me? Can you be my brave angel?”

Aziraphale sighs heavily.

“I’ll make it up to you, Angel, I ssswear it.”

“Hmmph. You’d better.”

“I’ll take you to that fancy arse restaurant you keep hinting about.”

Aziraphale makes a noncommittal sound.

“And … and I’ll give you a full body massage. No, two!”

“But what about -"

“Oh, I was always going to heal your poor little bottom as soon as I could, Angel!” Crowley runs his hand gently over the battered skin. “I’d do it now, but they’d notice.”

Aziraphale wriggles and his brows furrow in consideration. “Of course. I know. Well. Maybe don’t heal it _all_ the way." He blushes. "I mean, we don’t want to _waste_ it!"

Crowley can’t help but laugh out loud at that.

Aziraphale gives him a shy smile and says, “All right then, _three_ full body massages. Redeemable upon request.”

Crowley is more than willing to allow the upcharge. “As you wish.”

“I suppose that will do, then … ” Aziraphale trails off, a coy little quirk to his lips.

“_And_ I’ll spend _hours_ with my head between your thighs, Angel. Days, if you’d like.”

“Oh, goodness," Aziraphale squirms. "That would be lovely, darling.”

Crowley doesn’t mention that this is going to be as much a treat for him as it will be for Aziraphale. _Creme de la Angel Pussy_ is his favorite dish, after all. He decides he’s going to give Aziraphale an orgasm for every stroke of the tawse he endured. Payment for his suffering. Plus interest.

“I have to restart in a moment,” Crowley says in warning. “I’m sorry.”

“Of course, it’s all right,” Aziraphale gives himself a little shake to prepare. “I’m ready. And Crowley -”

“Yes, Angel?”

“You’ll need to make it count so they’ll be satisfied, for, ah, _appearances_. So - er - give it to me good, all right?”

Crowley's heart absolutely soars. “I love you so _fucking_ much, Aziraphale."

“And I you, Crowley dearest.”

They share one last passionate kiss as Crowley strains at the effort to hold time until he’s forced to break away and resume his former facade of impassiveness. He picks up the discarded tawse and squares his shoulders. A subtle crackle flows through the air, and then Michael and Hastur are breathing and moving again.

Aziraphale takes a deep breath, steadying himself and then gives a barely perceptible nod. Any and all doubts have long since dissipated. He trusts Crowley implicitly. Relaxing, he allows the tension to leave his shoulders, his back, his buttocks. It’s an expression of submission, giving himself up freely and willingly. A secret understanding between the two of them.

Crowley wants to kiss him again. He rainchecks the urge and raises the tawse high. He intends to make Aziraphale regret the request to “make it count.” But only a little.

The leather sings fire across the welted skin of Aziraphale’s buttocks, and the angel screams. Twice. The beautiful sound is forever etched into Crowley’s mind. Later, when they are alone together, Crowley muses that it's more or less the same as the screams Aziraphale makes while Crowley, true to his word, spends hours with his head between the angel’s plump thighs.

**Author's Note:**

> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/HipHopAnonymou9)
> 
> [Tumblr](https://hiphopanonymousao3.tumblr.com/)


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